The Rise of Henry Morcar Page 27

  “They heard on Friday that he’s been killed.”

  “Killed?”

  “Yes. In Spain. Didn’t you know he went out there to fight against Franco?”

  “No, I didn’t. I knew I hadn’t seen him about lately,” said Morcar uneasily. “But I didn’t realise he’d gone to Spain. Young fathead! What good did he think it would do?”

  “It was a matter of conscience. I know he wasn’t a favourite of yours,” said David.

  “Nay! I’d nowt against him. He stood for his side same as I stand for mine,” said Morcar. “And as to Franco, I agree with Matthew entirely. I can’t abide dictators.”

  “It’s especially hard for my uncle,” said David in a warmer tone: “Because you see he’s always been a pacifist. He was terribly upset when Matthew went.”

  “You’ve got some odd relations, David. No offence meant.”

  “Which do you think are the odder,” said David smiling: “The Oldroyds or the Mellors? Which are the most useful?”

  “Your grandfather was a fine chap and gave me my first job,” evaded Morcar hastily. “You’re rather like him.”

  David laughed, and Morcar shook out his Sunday newspaper in self-protection.

  As they had not a great deal of time to spare to catch their northern express they hurried down the platform as soon as the train reached Charing Cross. Sunday travel was disagreeable to Morcar, his feelings had been both ruffled and moved by his weekend with the Oldroyds, David’s disclosure about Matthew Mellor had depressed him and the uncertainty about the northern train was vexing, so he was in a gloomy mood. Suddenly he heard his name called in its variations:

  “Uncle Harry! Morcar! Harry!”

  He looked round and saw Harington, Christina and Jennifer bearing rapidly down upon them.

  Immediately the world took on an entirely different aspect. He looked at Christina fondly. She had lately been “growing her hair”, as the phrase went; the experiment was now complete and the result was charming; Morcar longed to run his fingers through those dark rich curls. On the coast the season had been summer, here in London it seemed early autumn; Christina was dressed in delicate black and wore her fox furs, with no ornament save her sapphire ring; as always she had the air of elegance, of sophistication, of tragic loveliness, which to Morcar was the essence of high romance. Loveliest, brightest, best, he thought. In her presence he forgot entirely about David for some moments, and then his introductions were perfunctory. Harington explained rapidly that a detail had come up in a brief on which he was working which concerned industrial practice. He wanted an elucidation of the meaning of an industrial phrase, and remembering that Morcar had gone to Southstone for the weekend had enquired about evening trains to the north and deduced that he would travel to London by the one which now stood at the platform. He knew there was very little time, had brought the car and would drive Morcar to King’s Cross and tap his brains en route. David made an unexpected factor in the situation, but Harington was so pleased with himself over the success of his deductions that he took this factor in his stride and packed David in with his wife and daughter; the party were on their way in a few moments.

  This good temper did not last. Harington always drove badly and became annoyed by any vehicle or pedestrian impeding his progress; to-day he drove execrably and became correspondingly bad-tempered, because Morcar could not give the information he wanted. Since the detail concerned cotton manufacture, Morcar considered Harington’s expectation unjustifiable, but the barrister saw the matter differently.

  “I can give you the name of a man who can tell you what you want,” offered Morcar.

  “My dear Harry, how many times have I to repeat that I need the information today—or at latest first thing tomorrow?”

  “Would the name of a book containing the information be of any use?” put in David suddenly.

  “Yes—if it were the kind of book I could get from the London Library,” conceded Harington.

  David promptly named a book. Harington looked over his shoulder at the young man rather peevishly. Knowing the barrister’s thought processes so well through his sensitiveness for Christina, Morcar could read Harington’s mind now; he was thinking that it was all very well to have one vulgar rich north-country manufacturer in tow—one, would pass as an amusing eccentricity. But two! Impossible! Morcar grinned to himself, but took no steps to smooth David’s path—he did not wish anyone from Annotsfield to become friendly with the Haringtons. Accordingly the remainder of the transit between the stations was occupied with efforts on David’s part to be agreeable which were received with snubs from Harington. They reached King’s Cross and began to descend from the car. David said suddenly:

  “I wonder if you know a sort of cousin of mine, sir, who lives down your way? Sir Richard Bamforth? He’s something in the Treasury.”

  Harington’s face changed so abruptly that Morcar perceived Sir Richard to be something very considerable in the Treasury.

  “I know of him,” said Harington.

  “Come along, David, or we shall miss this train,” urged Morcar irritably.

  They all hurled themselves from the car and ran on to the platform.

  “Well, come and dine with us next time you’re in town,” cried Harington as the two travellers sprang into the train.

  Astonished by the tone of this invitation, which would have been suitable if addressed to him seven or eight years ago, Morcar looked round, and perceived it was intended for David, who was saying “Thank you, sir,” gratefully.

  The train left at once. Morcar had no chance to look into Christina’s eyes, to exchange a private word, to touch her hand. His disappointment was savage. Moreover, he was not pleased by the barrister’s invitation to David. He was not pleased that David had met the Haringtons at all, and wished again that the boy had stayed in Southstone, as his father had obviously desired. Morcar did not want Annotsfield to know of his friendship with the Haringtons, because it seemed to him that any such knowledge was the first step towards the discovery of his relations with Christina. (He regretted even that Nasmyth knew it, but Nasmyth was a lawyer and presumably knew how to hold his tongue.) Any West Riding manufacturer who saw Morcar with Harington and Christina would know at once, Morcar felt sure, that Morcar was with the Haringtons either for the sake of business or for the sake of Christina. To them Harington would be an insufferable bore, and they would dismiss with derision any suggestion that Morcar took pleasure in his company; when they found that business was not in question they would draw the inevitable conclusion. Now one West Riding manufacturer—not a typical one, perhaps—had seen Morcar with the Haringtons and knew of the friendship. Possibly a meeting was inevitable some time, reflected Morcar, between two groups of people of both of whom he saw so much. But the invitation to dine, to further intimacy, was not inevitable; it would not have been given if David had not, so to speak, forced it.

  “Well—you played your ace,” said Morcar to David sourly, sinking back in his corner seat.

  “Yes,” said David. He coloured. He was still standing; he looked at Morcar defensively. “It was too soon in the game, you think?”

  “What game?” said Morcar in a rough tone.

  David did not enlighten him. Instead, he said politely: “Will you excuse me now, Mr. Morcar? I’m afraid I haven’t a first-class ticket on this part of the journey.”

  “Quite right,” approved Morcar, mollified in spite of himself by this example of sound economy. “Always keep down your overheads. Be off with you to the thirds. I’ll see you perhaps at Annotsfield.”

  When David had gone Morcar took up his newspaper again. But he found it difficult to concentrate on what he was reading. The figures of the four Oldroyds—the lame colonel defeated by the slump, the silly adoring wife, the naughty kitten Fan, David so exceptionally able and noble—mingled with those of the Haringtons—the snobbish hateful Edward, the ingenuous young Edwin away at sea, the noble handsome Jenny and his own darling, his beautiful belo
ved Christina. The two Mellors wove in and out of the mazy dance while his mother—for whom he had bought a special kind of deck chair in Southstone on Saturday on Mrs. Oldroyd’s recommendation—sat in the background sewing and watching. He felt sorry about that violent but sincere young fool Matthew, vexed that Fan should vex her father, pleased in a sad way that David should travel first where his father could see him and third elsewhere.

  “I’m getting cluttered up with people,” thought Morcar savagely, turning his paper with a jerk that tore the sheet. “I must cut them all out except Christina.”

  But he knew he could not cut them out; he cared too much for them.

  32. Presages

  The curtain rose to reveal an extraordinary backcloth, of a kind which Morcar privately designated surrealist, though probably inaccurately. Strange whorls and lobes in clashing crimsons, bold powerful planes in black, a couple of uneven yellow ovals which might or might not be eyes, a hint of a starfish and something resembling a huge scroll of ribbon, brought to mind uncomfortable words like cosmos and cataclysm, and suggested an action to come which without doubt, reflected Morcar, recalling the Victorian anecdote with amusement, would be quite unlike the home life of the great Queen. He seemed to remember now a remark from David that the décor was meant to suggest a human heart.

  “Fan won’t like it,” thought Morcar with a grin, as Verchinina entered and with her head held down as if in deep thought whizzed her arms in violent arcs which Fan’s expensive boarding-school would certainly regard as unladylike.

  The ballet was Les Présages; the party—a dinner, Covent Garden, supper and dancing—was an offering to the children by Morcar on the occasion of Fan Oldroyd’s birthday. Morcar sat at the end of the row with Christina between himself and her son, who was at home on a brief leave; then came Fan, very silky in close-fitting fashionable white which revealed every curve of her charming little body; Harington was enjoying himself between Fan and his daughter, each so striking of her kind; Jenny also in white looked classically handsome where Fan looked sexually attractive; David at Jenny’s left completed the party. Fan, now engaged (more or less) in a secretarial course and installed in a Kensington hostel of Christina’s choosing, was sampling the delights of London with avidity as far as (perhaps indeed a little further than) her limited means allowed. She had expressed a desire to see a ballet, but Morcar felt certain she had expected the sort of chorus ensemble found in musical comedy, something cheerful, pretty and in the vulgar sense stylish. The dissection of the heart’s problems offered her by Massine would probably both puzzle her and excite her derision.

  What was it all about anyway, wondered Morcar, as male figures leaped wildly across the back of the stage. He flicked on his lighter and examined the programme. The subject of the ballet, he read, is man’s struggle with his destiny. Quite a big subject, thought Morcar sardonically. The first scene represents life, with its diversions, desires and temptations. Ah, thought Morcar—watching the dancers with a keener interest and reading his own interpretation, the meanings of his own life, into the work of art before him—that is very true, that is just like life; one has aims, one has ambitions, one lowers one’s head in preoccupation, gazes within, dreams, swings one’s arms in a violent effort of thought to reduce the world to understandable patterns; then bevies of sensual images come swirling lightly in, events rush upon one distractingly, the ordered movement breaks and disintegrates. One tries continually to return to one’s original aim, the thought, the clear forward movement, but the other figures continually break in upon it.… What a mess my life is, thought Morcar; nothing is as it should be except Syke Mills and possibly David. I hope to God these four young things here will make a better job of it than I have. He felt moved and troubled, and if he had had the right to do so he would have taken Christina’s hand to seek reassurance.

  But now the stage was empty for a moment, the music changed to a beautiful slow melody which Morcar found thrilling, passionate and tender. He glanced at the programme again: In the second scene is revealed love in conflict with the baser passion which shatters the human soul. The beauty of love is imperilled, but prevails. Morcar looked up quickly at the stage; from the right two dancers entered. Lichine in strange bright green, his arm about the waist of his lover, supporting her: Baronova in strange bright red, on her points, her lovely arms extended upward in hope and aspiration: advancing slowly, with rhythmic pauses, to Tchaikovsky’s poignant and romantic music. Their progress was solemn, noble, beautiful; an ardent devotion, a tender respect, seemed to sustain them. Morcar was profoundly moved. Yes, he thought; that is love; that is how I feel towards Christina. The lovers danced together; ah if we only had time, thought Morcar, those noble evolutions would represent the movements of our souls towards each other, not merely of our bodies. But now the corps de ballet rush in—they are lovers too, no doubt, thought Morcar irritably, but I wish they would keep away and not confuse the issue. But what is this? Morcar sat up abruptly. A hateful batlike figure in dusty black rushes upon the scene; sinister, agile, hideous, with an effect of malignant glee, he threatens the dancers in powerful ugly gestures. Oh no, this is intolerable, thought Morcar, his heart contracting; the woman is thrown from her lovely poise, her beautiful serenity, by this hateful sordid black-winged destiny; her movements become anguished, exaggerated, contorted; she droops and wavers, her body tosses in anguish like a flower in a storm; destiny seizes her, drags her across the stage, she struggles to escape; the other women suffer the same torturing anguish. The man springs forward to try to rescue his love; he seems to attack the hateful black figure, to batter against it—in vain; he sinks back, defeated, exhausted. The woman—will she be carried quite away, hopelessly imprisoned? No; with a supreme effort which Morcar watched in terror lest her fragile form should be torn apart by the strain, she wrenches herself free, and dancing always, with poignant effort gradually regains her flowerlike grace and balance. The others take courage; the black destiny with a last malignant sneer, a threat to return, leaves them.

  And now the lovers are alone. After these terrible ordeals, these devastating changes and chances, at last through the power of their love they struggle upright. They resume their first noble pose; the woman raises her arms once again in steadfast aspiration, the man’s arm holds firm about her waist; they support each other. Moving once more in their old stately rhythm, they leave the scene with a tragic dignity, ennobled by the ordeals which have tried them. Their love, for the moment at least, has proved stronger than human destiny.

  Morcar’s feelings were so intense during this presentation of his own anguish of love that he feared he must have betrayed himself. He glanced along the row of his guests in apprehension. Tears trembled in Christina’s blue eyes and she gazed at the dancers with a tragic intensity which matched her lover’s. Edwin’s fresh young face gaped, soberly intent; Fan looked very young and frightened; Harington’s suave mask was wrinkled into keen æsthetic appreciation. What of the two good young souls beyond, wondered Morcar; what of Jenny and David? Their heads bowed slightly towards each other, their candid eyes wide, they gazed entranced at the moving and beautiful parable.

  With a shock of surprise and alarm, followed by a strange joy, Morcar saw that Jenny’s hand was clasped in David’s.

  33. Peace with Dishonour

  Then it was 1938. In Morcar’s life two parallel actions progressed throughout the year. There was a public action: England’s descent into the abyss of appeasement and humiliation. There was a private action: the division of all Morcar’s acquaintance into parties on opposite sides of this abyss. These actions presented themselves to his memory as a series of three-cornered conversations between himself, Harington and David Oldroyd, with Christina and Jenny as auditors and judges. The conversations were not always conducted in the presence of all five people concerned; Jenny was now up at Oxford, achieving her usual brilliant success in work and games, and David could not often be away from Annotsfield. But across the country by le
tter and report and talk, from David through Morcar to Harington, from Jenny through David and Christina to Morcar and Harington and back to David and Jenny, the argument raged.

  “You talk the most amazingly sentimental claptrap sometimes, Harry,” drawled Harington at dinner on New Year’s Day. “I’ve examined all that modern Jewish-German art pretty carefully, and I can assure you it was thoroughly decadent. Needed cleaning up. Besides, don’t you think Hitler’s treatment of the Jews is really rather natural? They’d grabbed all the best jobs in the land.”

  “Those who can hold the best jobs are entitled to them,” said Morcar.

  “If we acted on Hitler’s principle in this country,” said David, grinning: “We should be building concentration camps for Scotsmen.”

  Harington, who prided himself on a remote Highland strain in his blood, coloured and told him not to be absurd.

  February came; Anthony Eden resigned from the post of Foreign Secretary. It was a little difficult to know what went on behind the scenes, but it seemed clear enough to Morcar that Eden thought Germany and Italy should show some signs of repentance of their ways and give some guarantees of mending them before Great Britain could consent to meet them in friendly fashion at the conference table, while the Prime Minister Chamberlain was ready to take them by the hand without these preliminaries.

  “Why should we trust countries which have broken every promise made so far?” said David. “Let them show they mean good faith by keeping, even though belatedly, their promise to get out of Spain.”

  “David is prejudiced about Spain,” said Harington when he heard this from Morcar, “because of that preposterous cousin of his who got killed there.”

  Jenny attended a protest meeting about the resignation, in Oxford, David a similar meeting in Annotsfield.

  “Though why they should protest about an act of purely personal pique I own I cannot understand,” said Harington.